


The Gardener

by Xenobotanist



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Ethics, Alien Rituals, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Making difficult choices, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, POV Elim Garak, Polyamory, Worldbuilding, lots of nature, spirituality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25760452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenobotanist/pseuds/Xenobotanist
Summary: It's 13 years after the end of the Dominion War, and Elim Garak is alone on Cardassia with the consequences of his choices.Until Julian Bashir shows up, and everything starts to change.Is Garak ready for a new season of his life?
Relationships: Elim Garak/Kelas Parmak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak/Kelas Parmak
Comments: 18
Kudos: 67





	1. Past

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta or gamma canon-compliant, although it contains notes of both.
> 
> Here is what I listened to while writing a good deal of the story. It’s beautiful and moving, very emotional and inspiring.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JMjc9d8ayYQ&list=PLQpPPhjCDLTG68T5q5Jx1NhEMVWIApmlZ&index=5

Garak sat on a bluff overlooking the fresh young forest. The trees were young, no more than a decade old, but they were a fast-growing variety, and countless wildlife had already moved in to call them home. There was thick undergrowth around the edges, full of vines and berry bushes the likes of which had not been seen on this part of the continent in millenia.

The sun beat down on him, heating his scalp and back almost to the point of discomfort. The air above the ground glimmered and wavered in the heat. Up here it was still sand and scrub, and hot to boot. Gravelly and desolate, although still possessing a sort of still beauty. The rocky prominence he was seated on crackled beneath him as he shifted position, trying to find a comfortable angle that didn’t dig into the scales under his thighs or rear. 

As for the air rising up from the valley below, that was cool and clear. Like dipping your hand in a slow stream. It smelled of plantlife, of water, of growth and decay. The healthy kind of decay, of trees rotting and fungi returning their nutrients to the soil.

And it nearly never happened. The forest that almost wasn’t.

He remembered his discovery that the original design for transforming the basin had been a scam. The instigators behind the planning and passing of ordinances had actually bought the land with the idea of selling it to civilians  _ tek’ar  _ by  _ tek’ar  _ and allowing them to do with it as they pleased. There were no regulations in place as to what would be grown, what animals would be introduced, and no overarching management of the space once it was completed. No irrigation, weed or pest control, no environmental regulations. The entire mission was doomed to failure.

His retaliation had been swift and absolute. A skimmer accident. Faulty wiring, a spark in the wrong compartment. It had been fatal to the manager and two assistants inside, all of whom had been complicit. The project was turned over to a junior officer, one with pure intent, and had come through quickly and efficiently, surpassing everyone’s expectations with his dedication and brilliance. 

The results spoke for themselves.

Kelas, predictably, had been furious when he found out. It didn’t matter that Garak’s hands didn’t actually touch the skimmer. He’d been behind the action, the regnar in the sand.

His partner had been hot with righteous anger at his refusal to leave the less savory aspects of his former life behind. And then he’d turned cold. He stopped speaking about the incident, barely spoke at all. Just began a sullen withdrawal, with icy glances whenever cornered.

And then he was gone.

A note was left behind. About how times had changed, how the world they lived in should no longer rely on violence and covert machinations. That he couldn’t condone Elim’s actions no matter how positive the consequences.

Garak eventually lost track of Kelas after one of his more obscure humanitarian efforts.

That was 8 years ago.

He’d do it again.

Had, in fact. Twice.

He considered climbing down the slope to see the forest at a closer perspective. There was a path far off to his left, only mildly treacherous, that would take him down along the cliff face. He’d studied the maps and diagrams long enough to know every detail of the area.

But he couldn’t bring himself to get up. 

Did he deserve to experience the peace offered by the burgeoning ecosystem? To immerse himself in greenery and refreshing shade? Would his metaphorically bloody hands sully the spirit of the small glade? Would he ever finish doing penance?

The faintest breeze stirred the tops of the trees, leaves whispering against leaves like a distant sea. A million pinpoints of life. He could see bird-like  _ pinti  _ darting in and out of the canopy, could hear the chik-chik-chik of  _ ors’s _ escaping them, could smell--so faintly it may have been his imagination--the white  _ ett _ flowers as they began to unfurl in anticipation of the Blind Moon rising at dusk.

The beauty of the vista was too much. 

For the first time in 18 years, he cried. Tears streamed down his face; his shoulders heaved. He hadn’t done this since the implant was switched off. Had held it in so long. His chest ached with the sobs, a deep thrum that felt like he was collapsing in on himself. And yet it ached so  _ good, _ like it was something he needed to do, like he never wanted to stop. The sorrow and pain, the zeal and passion of a life dedicated to Cardassia wrapped around him like a blanket. 

This was what he did it for.

For trees.

For fresh air.

For a future.

For hope.

What were the deaths of three crooks in the face of repairing a broken planet?

He knew what Kelas would say. That sacrificing lives to save life was not the answer. That there had to be a better way.

But Tolan would disagree. Tolan and his heretical Hebitian perspectives. He would say that the ancients understood sacrifice. Giving of one’s body and soul to renew and invigorate the land. All life exists at the expense of other life. A balance. 

Perhaps those men had not intended on sacrificing their own lives for the betterment of their homeworld. But, in the end, did it really matter who made the choice? Their loss had been Cardassia’s gain. The  _ pinti’s  _ and  _ ett’s  _ gain.

The knowledge washed over him, through him, cleansing the soiled soul he harbored. But rather than leaving him refreshed and renewed, he had become dangerously bereft. An empty shell. Hollow. There was nothing to replace the creature who was Elim Garak.

Disturbed, he roughly scrubbed at his face. The drying tears tickled and itched. Unfortunately, his palms were coated in sand from resting on the ground beside him, so he rubbed with the backs of his hands, wishing he had brought some sort of tissue or cloth with him. Maybe, just this once, he could use a sleeve.

“Wait a second, don’t do that. Here,” said a voice behind him as a square of gray cloth was thrust at his face. “I know how much you hate the idea of bodily fluids marring one of your creations.”

He turned around, looking up at the shadowed figure arched over him.  _ Scrawny _ , was his first thought. Overworked, likely. Malnourished, possibly. The body of someone who spent all their time working tirelessly on the betterment of others with little thought to stopping for something as trivial as nourishment for himself. Were they really all that different, deep down?

_ His hair is lighter _ , was the next thought. Although it wasn’t really. The scruffy mane and beard were still dark, but interspersed with white strands.  _ Salt and pepper, _ the humans would say.

“Hullo, Garak,” Julian said quietly. He kneeled down, out of the direct path of the sun, which brought his features into sharper focus.

He reached out--they both did--and embraced the doctor with the force of a black hole’s gravity well. They clasped each other, chest to chest, heads tucked into necks, and nothing had ever felt so  _ solid _ before, not even the plateau beneath him. It was like hugging a statue, a living, breathing one. An anchor. 

And the strangest thing was, suddenly Garak didn’t feel empty anymore. 

It wasn’t as if he was filled or completed by the other man’s presence.

It was more like… he realized that  _ he, Elim, _ was alive. That he was a presence of his own. Not a puppet or a manipulator, a vague entity on the sidelines of the universe. He was  _ someone.  _ To Julian Bashir, Elim Garak was an individual, a friend, a confidant. Not a weapon or a tool. Not a advisor to the Castellan of a recovering empire. 

He squeezed even tighter, feeling the strength in his own muscles for the first time. He could feel his heartbeat in his chest, and was surprised to find that he  _ did _ have a heart. 

Tears leaked out again, from the far corners of his eyes, and they didn’t bother him this time. They were as warm as blood, as soft as silk.

Julian coughed in his arms, and he released him suddenly.

“I’m sorry,” the human wheezed. “It felt so good, but… I couldn’t breathe.”

“It’s quite all right, Doctor. Perhaps my grip has retained more strength than I realized.”

Bashir beamed at him. “That’s excellent to hear. You haven’t gone soft on me.”

Oh, to hear that voice again. Not through buffers or microphones and speakers, but in person. 

“I’ve gone many places in my old age, dear. But soft is not one of them.” True, he no longer had a morning regimen or even watched his diet so closely anymore, but he walked daily, and his time volunteering in the community gardens kept him limber and solid.

“I’ve heard about some of the places you’ve been,” Bashir said, leaning on one knee. “And I’ve heard a few  _ rumors _ of other places as well.”

“Hopefully not from the young Mr. Sisko. Or not so young anymore. As a journalist, some of his sources are… prone to embellishment.”

“True. Especially when  _ you’re  _ one of them.”

Garak felt absurdly pleased to hear that they’d discussed him. “And you’ve made your way around the quadrant yourself, from what I’ve gathered. I was most worried when I didn’t receive correspondence from you for three months straight, until I heard you were on Vulcan. I imagine the conversations must have been quite lengthy and… stimulating.” His tone of voice conveyed that he thought precisely the opposite.

Bashir laughed. “Yes, that’s true. Although even Vulcan’s have their limits. I didn’t take the hint, though, until my hosts began refusing me raktajinos and offering me sleep aids. But I  _ did _ call you the day after arriving back home. That conversation lasted 4 hours, didn’t it?”

Which brought them to a crucial question. “Yes, that’s true. Speaking of. Doctor Bashir, why did you--”

The Human put up his hands. “Whoa, not yet. First I want to see what you’ve been working on. I know this was something of a pet project of yours a while back.” He held one hand out to the valley, and the other grabbed Garak’s. He tugged gently, pulling them both to their feet.

They made their way down the escarpment to the cooler air below. Bashir never released his hand.

At the bottom, they were greeted by an incessant rustle, the sound of a living, breathing forest bursting with life. Bashir dragged him along a small path, halting when they found themselves blinking in the dappled shade. Instinctively, the both drew in a deep breath, releasing long, deep sighs. 

A medium-sized bluish lizard bustled by, and Bashir took off after it, leaving Garak behind. He watched the doctor crouch down and follow the animal into a pile of roots, only to be distracted by the mushrooms growing from the trunk. He touched one of the white protuberances, startled when it immediately darkened to charcoal. But before he could comment, a  _ pinti _ flew overhead, and he watched as it grasped the side of a tree and then pushed over with it’s muscular legs to flap deeper into the woods. It was like watching a child experiencing something for the first time, pure interest and unrestrained delight.

“Garak, stay still!” Bashir rushed over, hunching and diving at the Cardassian’s foot. To his chagrin, some long, brown and yellow insect with over two dozen legs was creeping up his shoe. He leapt back to absolutely no effect, because the animals was already riding him. Instead, it snuck under the hem of his trousers and upwards. He froze.

Bashir kneeled down at his feet, hands following after the insect. He lifted the hem, but it wouldn’t rise very far, so he ran his fingers up Garak’s legs. There were now three separate sensations teasing his shin and calf, and for some reason he couldn’t do anything more than stare.

“Got it!” The Human brushed downward, sweeping the bug back out into the light and then onto the ground. They watched it skitter away.

Garak reached out to help Bashir back up. “Thank you, my dear.”

“I hope it wasn’t venomous. I didn’t even think about it.”

“Indeed. Are you always so blase about sliding your hands under people’s clothing? It could send someone the wrong idea, you know.” The line slid out so naturally, like no time had passed since they’d stood together on the promenade of DS9. Only now more than ever, he was supremely anxious to hear the answer.

Instead of a wry comeback or a roll of the eyes, the doctor glanced away. He put his hands in his pockets and turned toward the entrance of the path. “It’s getting dark. We should probably head back.” His voice had deepened perceptibly.

Unnerved by the uncharacteristic reticence suddenly displayed by his friend, Garak nodded and moved forward to lead the way.


	2. Present

They faced each other over a table in the dining area of a small bed and breakfast. Bashir had his Tarkalean tea, Garak the redleaf. Neither of them had ordered any food, but the hostess didn’t push them.

"So, what does a retired advisor to the Castellan do?"

"Continue to advise, mostly. Just in a less official capacity." Which was probably a role Garak was much more suited to, anyway.

Bashir spun his cup around. “Do you ever feel like you’re not living your own life? Like you’re living the life someone else set up for you?”

“Of course, Doctor. First, with Tain and the Obsidian Order, then the exile. And after returning here, as steward to Cardassia.”

The Human hung his head. “I’m sorry, Garak. That was a stupid question for me to ask.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing, Doctor. Especially since I’m aware it was a rhetorical question, and I chose to answer it anyway.” He let go of his drink to lay a hand on the human’s. “I wasn’t aware you felt that way about your own life.”

Staring at their hands, Bashir shook his head. “After I found out what my parents did, I always felt like I had to do the best, to work harder and smarter than everyone else because of my unfair advantage. Especially out here, after everyone found out what I was. I’ve cured plagues, invented vaccines, made reproduction between incompatible races possible. Don’t get me wrong. I love helping people and knowing that I made a difference. It just… doesn’t feel authentic. I feel like I’m living the life of an augment instead of a human being. I--I don’t know if I’ve ever done anything just for _me_. Not for my parents, or Starfleet or the Federation. Just for me. I don’t… Dammit, Garak, I’m not even sure what I could say my hobbies are anymore. I used to do the holosuites, and drink at Quarks… but I haven’t seen the chief and his family in years. And ever since Quark returned to Ferenginar…” He trailed off. “Maybe we should change the subject.”

“I believe, Doctor, that you were going to tell me why you’ve come to Cardassia.” Garak wrapped both hands around the mug, grateful for the heat now that dusk had settled.

Bashir, on the other hand, was still glistening with sweat. He took a sip of tea, made a face, and set it down. He didn’t mince words. “I couldn’t play the game anymore, Garak. All the subspace calls, the letters, the gifts. It’s been too long. We’ve been going back and forth for 2 decades now. And I--I don’t want to keep it up. I’m tired, Garak.”

An odd sort of chill prickled down his spine. Was this goodbye? Was he about to lose the last close friend he had? The fact that Bashir cared enough to keep in touch had meant everything to him, especially on lonely winter nights. But now, even now, when he was at risk of losing the his last reason for looking forward to the next day and the next, he couldn’t bring himself to face it head on. “And what game would that be, Doctor?”

“ _Dammit,_ Garak, I said I want to _stop_ ,” Bashir seethed. “Stop dancing around whatever this is between me and you. Stop pretending like we’re just good aquaintances who talk just to pass the time.” He’d worked himself up enough that a rivulet of sweat ran down his forehead. He brushed it away angrily, wiping briefly at the corner of his eye as if moisture had gathered there as well. But when he leaned over the table on both forearms, fingers absently tearing at the napkin, his expression was intense. “I want to know--I _need_ to know, if we… if there could ever be something… more.”

“More than 20 years of lunches, occasional adventures, companionship throughout a war, and infinite correspondences? Every month, occasionally every week? Sharing our trials and triumphs, our joys and woes? More than that?”

Bashir looked flabbergasted. “From light years apart! Always teasing and _suggesting_ , but never following through. You’ve never once invited me to Cardassia, and any time I’ve asked you to see me at Deep Space Nine or stop by Bajor, or join me to see the O’Briens, you’ve always claimed to have some _urgent_ responsibility keeping you away. But Garak, you _say_ that you miss me and our time together. And I--I’ve seen the look in your eyes when we say goodbye. Was it all just a lie over all this time? One more diversion for you? I can’t--”

“Doctor.” Garak’s look was steely. “Even I would be hard-pressed to play a con that long. And to what end?”

The Human slumped, defeated. “I don’t know, Garak. You tell me.”

“Doctor. My--my dear. How could I invite you to Cardassia? My planet was in shambles _._ The air wasn’t breathable, half of the buildings were on fire, whole cities were overtaken by radiation poisoning. I couldn’t bear for you to see that.”

“But I could have _helped!_ ” Julian growled. “I _know_ you didn’t forget that I’m a doctor. If you had let me help find a cure for the AV1 virus... or I could have worked at a hospital as a simple surgeon. Did you even use the copy of the LMH that I sent?”

“We didn’t have the resources to implement it, then,” Garak said wearily. “But yes, eventually, it was distributed. Although it took some time for doctors and patients alike to accept help from a holographic human.”

“Perhaps an _actual_ human would have been easier to get to know,” Bashir said acidly.

“You _won’t_ put all this on me!” Garak argued back. “If you’ll recall, you were with Ms. Ezri Dax at the time. I believe you said that you were _passionately_ in love with her. How could I have even thought you would be interested in coming here?”

“I know,” Bashir conceded. “But I was wrong, as we found out only 6 months later. Why didn’t you say anything then?”

“You mean why didn’t I stop shutting down the remains of the Obsidian Order and meeting in hidden subbasements with the provisional government to ask a Federation doctor to please join me in the shed behind Enabran Tain’s mansion and be my lover?”

Bashir’s cheeks darkened. “Your lover?”

“I’m sorry. Did you actually want to be my son? I was under the impression that the age difference didn’t matter to you.”

“I’d slap you for that if you hadn’t just called me your lover.”

“I didn’t.” Garak eyed him. “But you do find that idea attractive?”

“Why in the blazes do you think I’m here?” Bashir asked heatedly.

“I thought, perhaps, to say goodbye.”

Bashir put his hand on the table, just short of Garak’s. “I don’t want to. I haven’t been able to, all these years, no matter how many times I’ve tried.” He shifted his hand, just enough for his pinkie to touch a gray thumb. “Is that why you’ve kept on with this? Because you couldn’t say goodbye either?”

“Doctor…”

Bashir pulled away to put his forehead on the heels of his palms. He shook his head against them. “That’s your answer, isn’t it?” he groand behind his arms.

Garak narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You still won’t call me Julian.” When he dropped his arms, his face was full of anguish. “I had hoped that if I came to see you, in person… That if you touched me, and I touched you, that finally we could be Julian and Elim. Elim and Julian. But you still call me by my title.” He glanced out the window across the room. “I guess I was kidding myself that it was a term of endearment.”

Garak floundered, feeling like the sand was shifting under his feet too swiftly for him to stay balanced. He wanted to bridge the gap between them, but he didn’t know how. And he was still too afraid to try. If he was honest with himself, he still wasn’t convinced that Bashir felt what he _said_ he felt. What was the human expression? Too good to be true.

For some reason, he remembered back to when he was dying from the erosion of the implant. Heart fluttering in his chest, he echoed the statement from so long ago. “Oh, don’t give up on me now, Doctor.” He left out the next part, _Patience has its rewards._ Because that wasn’t true, was it? Bashir _had_ been patient, for far longer that Garak had ever expected. 

And now, to his surprise--although, not really--he wanted to reward him. He wanted to make him smile. And laugh. He wanted to see this beautiful being _happy_. 

Garak set his empty mug aside and stood up. He beckoned to Bashir. "Come upstairs with me."

Bashir stood immediately, but looked uncertainly at the stairs. "You have a room here?"

Garak smiled wryly. "You could say that." He put his hand to Bashir's lower back and led him forward. Heart in his throat, the human could only comply.

They passed a half-dozen rooms to the end of the hall, where Garak entered a complex code to be admitted into his suite.

And a suite it was. The door opened to a spacious main room, with a kitchenette in the corner and a hall to the side that likely led to bedrooms. In typical Cardassian fashion, there were arches and a preponderance of gray, but here and there were splashes of color. The pillows on the sofa looked suspiciously familiar. Bashir had to ask. "Did you make those from your old tunics?"

Garak barely gave them a glance, his eyes only on the doctor. "I'm nothing, if not efficient, my dear." And to prove his point, he brought his hands to Bashir's waist and deftly lifted the man's shirt off. 

"Hey," Bashir protested feebly, laughing softly. 

But Garak was already removing his own shirt. Both garments were draped over the arm of the sofa, casually wrapped together like two sated bodies.

They came together slowly, palm to palm and chest to chest, drinking in the sight of one another until their lips met. Then their eyes closed as they felt each other for the first time, in the way they'd denied themselves for so long, mouth to mouth and breath to breath. Tongues slipped out to taste and lap at the new textures being offered. Arms curled around waists, around shoulders, caressing faces, backs, hair. 

Bashir felt so slight against Garak, and yet so vibrantly vital and alive. He was abuzz, thrumming with energy, with desire. 

How many nights had Garak dreamed of this moment? How long had this need burned in his belly, aching to be satisfied, not even quenched when he was inside Kelas? 

Far too long.

Pulling Bashir with greedy hands and a tug at the lips with his teeth, he led the doctor toward his bedroom. Never breaking the kiss, they began removing their remaining garments at the foot of the bed. Naked at last, they broke apart to take a glimpse of each other's bodies.

"I've never been with a Cardassian," Bashir murmured, almost bashfully.

Garak tutted. "I've never known unfamiliarity to stop you before," he replied archly.

Bashir closed the distance between them. "And it's not going to stop me now. Just..." he traced a finger over an orbital ridge. "Just give me a moment to take you in." At Garak's raised brow, he chuckled. "You know what I mean."

But two decades of repression took their toll, and it wasn't long before they were pressed completely together from hip to chest, kissing again and moaning at the sensation of skin to scale. 

Entangled, they toppled slowly onto the mattress. 

"Alright," Bashir said breathlessly. "We can do this now, but later on I want to get a good look."

"And you shall, dear. All in good time. But if you don't hurry, I'm going to make an awful mess of myself."

Bashir gulped. "God, what an image," he muttered, licking and then nibbling at a shoulder ridge. He hitched a leg around Garak, and that was all it took for the Cardassian to evert. As their erections met, both men moaned. They began thrusting and gasping, hips snapping as they sloppily tried to kiss every inch of each other's mouths, jaws, and necks. Bashir whined in his ear and suddenly they were both there, crying out as they spasmed and writhed.

After a few moments they separated and sprawled out on their backs, breathing is slow gasps.

Bashir reached over, taking Garak’s hand. "It looks like we _both_ made a mess," he commented. Still cheeky.

"And on my good blanket, too," Garak added mournfully.

“ _Your_ blanket? Don’t you mean theirs?” Bashir thought about it for a second. The large rooms. The homemade pillows. “Is this building _yours_?” Before Garak could answer, he continued, chuckling. “I never thought you the type to run a bed and breakfast.”

“It would seem I still retain a modicum of secrecy.”

Bashir squeezed his hand. “Well then, I _am_ sorry about your lovely blanket. Would you like me to help you wash it out?”

Garak rolled onto his side, wanting to see the human’s face. “Not just yet. You did mention wanting to get to know my body more, and I _was_ hoping to improve upon our exertions with a second attempt. Maybe a third, if necessary. There is a human saying that I’m rather fond of: Practice makes perfect.”

Bashir turned to meet him. “As much as I love our debates, I don’t think I can argue with that.”


	3. Dream

Garak stood at the window, overlooking the dim landscape beyond his alley. He couldn’t see the Blind Moon, but he could almost sense it, south and west of where he was facing. The  _ ett _ flowers would have fully spread their petals by now, ready to be visited by tiny, glowing  _ ssutoku  _ beetles who would mate, lay eggs, and perish all in one night. Tomorrow, all of the  _ ett _ flowers would have closed, the pollinated ones turning a deep pink with a purple throat, and the untouched ones dropping to the forest floor.

He felt like they were symbolic of Julian’s visit. They’d certainly fertilized each other enough, he thought lewdly. Although it was doubtful their lovemaking would bear fruit. As best he could figure, they’d both return to their respective lives, maybe repeating their intimacy once a year or so. Or maybe this was it. Maybe, with his question finally answered, the Doctor would move on. Find somewhere...some _ one _ on the other end of the galaxy. 

Dissatisfied with this line of thought, Garak decided to take a step outside for some fresh air. He opened the door to the patio…

_ And walked into the Captain's office on Deep Space Nine. _

_ Complete with Benjamin Sisko seated behind the desk. _

_ He wasn’t wearing his Starfleet uniform, though. It was some sort of long, creamy, flowing robe. He pinned Garak with his gaze. “Garak.” _

_ “Captain.” _

_ The intense look faltered for a second. “No… not this time. I’m here in a somewhat different capacity.” _

_ “Is this a dream?” _

_ “If you’d like to think of it that way, then yes.”  _

_ Being greeted by the Emissary would make sense in a dream, but then he’d just been out of bed and awake a moment ago. Hadn’t he? _

_ Thrown somewhat off balance, Garak tried to regain his footing. “To what do I owe the honor?” _

_ "Your penance is over." It was said with absolute assurance and authority, a benediction.  _

_ Shaken, Garak took a seat. Even if it wasn’t real. “Pardon me for saying so, but Cardassia seems to be a bit out of your jurisdiction.” _

_ Sisko removed the baseball from his desk and examined it. “Not as much as you would think. I have… friends. Tell me, Mr. Garak, have you heard of… the ancient Hebitians?” _

_ He had, to an embarrassing extent. Despite their teachings being both unlawful and taboo across much of his planet, he’d learned more than a little from the man he’d first called Father. Tolan, Enabran Tain’s gardener. As a child, it had been like listening to fairy tales. Oralius, the Way, the life-force of the universe permeating them all. Tain had been furious when he’d heard young Elim spouting off an adage about the nobility of healers, how it was more difficult and courageous to save a life than to take one. _

_ “There is an as-yet undiscovered Hebitian temple on the smallest island off the Ba’aten Peninsula.” Sisko’s eyes gleamed. “It’s waiting for… a man of your talents. Specifically, YOU.” _

_ “Me? Why?” What did he have that an extinct race could want? _

_ “Because the heart of Cardassia still struggles. Without help, it may never fully recover. The one resource you need the most remains… out of your reach.” _

_ Food.  _

_ It wouldn’t matter how many communities were rebuilt if there was nothing for them to subsist on. But Cardassia remained a mostly-desert planet, inhospitable to most crops, and especially to the various gifts from other planets. They were still grossly dependent on trading mineral resources for edibles. Selling off the bones of their mother to feed their children. _

_ The Emissary stood up, pacing behind his desk. “Inside the temple is a hidden cache. A library of sorts. An ARK. It contains seeds, Mr. Garak. Of plants that have been extinct for thousands upon thousands of years. Plants that stave off erosion. That slow water evaporation. That remove heavy metals from the soil. Grains! Fruits! Vegetables!” He walked around the console to stand in front of Garak. “So you see. Cardassia will need… a gardener.” _

_ Garak knew the role of gardener. He’d been an apprentice of sorts to Tolan. He’d put his lessons to use on Romulus. He’d taken up gardening again on DS9, with the aid of Keiko O’Brien. And then back on Cardassia. He’d planted vegetables to supplement the rations they were given during the recovery, first for him and then for several members of the community. He’d planted his Edosian orchids, overcome with emotion when they thrived. Some deep part of him WANTED to grow things. To start life rather than end it. That desire was one of the few things Tain had failed to stamp out of him. _

_ And here was Sisko, telling him that… what? That it was his destiny to be a gardener? It felt cruel, like a gift given a lifetime too late. He felt himself growing irrationally angry. Who did this human think he was, meddling in the affairs of Garak’s homeworld? “Are you here on behalf of the Prophets or the Hebitians?” he asked tersely. “Forgive me, but I don’t see what this has to do with Bajor.” _

_ “Garak, what you find in this vault will have profound effects on both Cardassia and Bajor. Not the least of which is because the Bajorans would be invaluable allies in regards to maintaining a ecological balance. But I think you’ll find that… some of the seeds preserved by the Ancients are… Bajoran in origin.” _

_ “What? How?” _

_ Sisko smiled enigmatically. “That is something you’ll have to figure out on your own.” _

_ “You’re telling me that I’m supposed to transform the biome of my planet AND solve an ancient mystery?” Garak asked incredulously.  _

_ The Emissary leaned back on the desk, his knees almost touching Garak’s. "This will be your most difficult, most demanding task yet. But!" he jabbed a finger in the air with his famous Sisko fervour. "It will also be the most rewarding." He tossed his baseball up in the air, but when it landed, it was a large uthok seed. He placed it in Garak’s hands, filling his palms. _

_ At his touch, tendrils slipped out. White ones that tentatively wrapped around his fingers and wrists. Roots. A long green one that stretched and curled upward, heart-shaped leaves unfurling. Branches sprouted, obscuring his vision. He set the tree down, only to find himself sitting in a rainforest. The sound of waves registered in the background. And he seemed to be sitting on… a carved stone, worn down by wind, water and sand. It had to be the island. _

_ He looked around for the Emissary, but couldn’t find him. _

_ "How will I find this temple?" he asked anway. _

_ Sisko’s voice sounded inside his head. "You won't need to. After you arrive, you'll meet two children. Twins. They'll show you something of interest that they found." He couldn’t see the human, but he could feel a warm smile. "Their names are Mila and Tolan." _

_ Humbled and in awe, Garak felt frozen to the spot. But the Emissary wasn't finished yet. _

_ "Oh, and a last thing. This excavation will be dangerous. I recommend keeping a couple of doctors on hand." _


	4. Future

Elim finished reading the final report. Every continent--even the northern one--had experienced unmitigated success. Crops and lush ecosystems were springing up all across the surface of Cardassia. He’d even heard that some of them were visible from space. Green patches among the browns, yellows, and reds. Imagine that!

He stood up from his desk, stretching. He knew his back and knees should be bothering him after the final planting yesterday and 6 straight hours at the computer today, but he actually couldn’t remember the last time in the past 3 years that he’d felt so much as a twinge. The Hebitian medicines and salves must be working. The constant exercise of climbing, planting, and entertaining 2 lovers might have something to do with it as well. 

He felt like he was young again.

Stepping outside for some fresh air, he almost tripped across Kelas, who was seated on the ground, weaving yet  _ another _ basket from the  _ lussok _ reeds. Elim already had 7 of various sizes and patterns, Julian had 5, and Kelas… well, with the addition of this one, he might not have room for a bed anymore. 

But the Cardassian doctor didn’t even look at him. He had a hand over his mouth, and might have been giggling. Garak followed his gaze to find their human companion emerging from the the forest path that led to the restored ruins.

Julian’s already bronze skin had darkened even more in the equatorial sun, but now it also held a decidedly  _ red _ cast from digging in the mud. Or maybe rolling in it? He was covered from head to toe. It was even in his beard. He strolled over quickly, breaking out into a manic grin. 

Kelas scrambled to his feet, backing away. He ducked behind Elim.

Julian grew closer, leering at them. “Elim! Kelas! How good to see you! It’s been such a long day, and I’ve missed you both. Can’t I have a hug?”

Kelas shoved Elim forward. 

Julian held his arms out, only to find them twisted around behind him. It pleased the ex-spy to no end that he could still surprise the human. “If you think you’re going to get your grubby paws on my favorite tunic, you are sadly mistaken,” Elim play-growled into his ear. He jerked his head to speak behind him. “Kelas, help me.” The two of them tugged a half-heartedly protesting Julian across the plaza. When he saw where they were taking him, he yelped. “Wait! You can’t--” 

Too late. He was on his rear in the central fountain, water up to his navel and a trickle running down his back. He tried to look indignant, but failed miserably, smiling with his irrepressible good humor. “Come join me?”

Kelas looked to be seriously considering it until a Bajoran woman hurried over. “Gardener! Sir! Do you have a moment, Bright One?” That was a new phrase. How many honorifics were they going to give him?

He shot a meaningful look to Julian, who scrambled out of the basin, then inlcined his head to the woman. Mylira? Yes, that was it. “More pilgrims have arrived to see the Heart of Cardassia,” she murmured, bowing slightly. Elim still wasn’t sure if that meant the island, the temple, the repository, or  _ him. _

“Could you be a dear and find them a place at the inn? Let’s get them settled in before they traipse around the village.”  _ Or ask me to bless their babies, _ he added silently. He was beginning to feel a sort of empathy for all the times that Captain Sisko had complained about the duties of being the Emissary.

“Yes, of course. You’re very wise, Sir.” She bowed again and rushed back off, dodging around a small group of chatting Bajorans and Cardassians who had gathered next to the Gardener’s Hall. Each person touched a specific carving on the new building, mumbling a quiet prayer to themselves. Some reached for the flower, others the tree. Some ran their hand over the sun or the water drop. Most of them also cast a furtive glance at Elim, the Gardener, before ducking into the cool interior of the Hall.

As the last one filed in, a quiet litany began, turning into a joyous refrain that rang out into the courtyard while the three of them returned to the administration building. 

“I can’t believe they started a religion around this,” Elim said with wonder for maybe the hundredth time. He winced when his name was sung out by the congregation. “I never asked to be worshipped.”

“It’s  _ not _ a religion, per se.” Julian smiled awkwardly. “Sure, it’s got services, and songs, and chants and rituals, but…” He looked to Kelas for help.

“They don’t  _ worship _ you, dear. Although I dare say they might if you allowed them to. It’s more that they…  _ thank  _ you. And sing your praises.”

Elim felt like he’d already been thanked enough for three lifetimes. It was gratifying, in a way, but… “Could you at least tell them not to raise that statue? I understand they want to commemorate Cardassia’s turning point, but couldn’t they sculpt a seed, or shovel, or someone who wasn’t a conniving bastard for half of their life?”

Julian laid a hand on his arm. “It’s my estimation that every man that ever had a statue made of him was one kind of a son of bitch or another. It’s not about you, Garak. It’s what they need,” he said sagely.

“What author said that?” Elim asked. “I don’t recognize the quote.”

“It wasn’t an author. A smuggler, actually. Malcolm Reynolds.”

Kelas mused it over. “I suppose he’s right.” But then his eyes grew wide. He was staring at Elim’s sleeve where Julian had touched it. At the wet and distinctly red handprint marring the pale blue fabric.

The human smirked. “Looks like it’s  _ your _ turn for a bath.”

Elim tried to escape; he really did. But he got tangled up in the half-woven basket at his feet. His two dearest loves dragged him kicking and cursing back over to the fountain, only succeeding in dunking him by crawling in themselves. 

Julian had pinned his arms down from behind, legs wrapped around his waist, and Kelas sat on his shins. Water cascaded down his left arm, and Julian leaned into his right ear. “We only do this because we love you,” he chortled, laying a loud smack on Elim’s cheek.

“And I only  _ let _ you because I love you,” he quipped back. It felt so wild and free to be able to say those words. To mean them, to feel them. It was as if his heart was Cardassia, and it was bursting to life. 

Giggling came from the other side of the fountain. Mila and Tolan had joined in the fun, splashing each other and dancing merrily. A few other children were on their way.

Elim looked past them, into the shadows under the trees. A dark figure stood there, eyes and teeth gleaming from the proud face. 

The Emissary nodded.

The Gardener nodded back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed calling the characters by the last names to their first names to show how they'd finally made the final step in intimacy.
> 
> Let me know what you thought about the story. I live on Comments, Kudos, and Caffeine!


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